Verrückt
by Jasque
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a king who sat on a golden throne. In spite of his wrath, he was a well-respected king for his rectitude far exceeded his temper. His name, Rumpelstiltskin, was as silly as his pink castle. He had all the wealth the world could offer and more. Despite his fortune, the king was a very lonely man—broken in body and soul.
1. Chapter 1

Beta'ed by the lovely nibblesfan. Errors are mine because I couldn't stop editing.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a king who sat on a golden throne. In spite of his wrath, he was a well-respected king for his rectitude far exceeded his temper. His name, Rumpelstiltskin, was as silly as his pink castle and he had all the wealth the world could offer and more. Even though he amassed a fortune, the king was a very lonely man—broken in body and soul. His queen had eloped with a passing sailor and his heir, the only light in his life, succumbed to sickness. With his child's passing, the king gave in to his grief.

In his dark and dreary room, Rumpelstiltskin spent his days and nights in isolation. On the ninth day of his seclusion, a spiteful fairy called Mathilda visited the king, whispering promises of alleviating his pain. Desperate for release from his agony the king believed the fairy's words, in exchange, he gave her his soul.

Without his soul, the once just king became ruthless; coupled with his temper, his subjects lived in fear. Harsh punishments awaited transgressors regardless of the offence severity and taxes weighed heavily on his subjects. Despite the many protestations, the people's voice fell on deaf ears.

Unknowing to the king, every cruel deed twisted his soul, which became the fairy's sustenance as long as he lived. The corrupted soul gave Mathilda her powers and longevity, successively altering Rumpelstiltskin's appearance. His smooth, pink skin turned into rough, green scales littered with specks of gold. Brown eyes became golden-green and there were fangs in place of teeth. The king gave no thoughts to these changes. You could even say he relished in them as they struck fear in others.

Under the king's iron fist rule, unrest grew, instigating plots to overthrow him. The rebels however, were no match for the combined cunningness of the fairy and their king. The pair was quick in squelching the rebellion and driving rebels out of their den. Torture and execution awaited these fugitives including those who aided them. Fearing another uprising that threatened her life source, the fairy kept an ever-watchful eye on the kingdom through her hand mirror. It would glow green at the slightest sign of a threat.

Living in fear of him, his people became submissive, abandoning their revolt and hope. As the insurgents declined, the kingdom started to stabilise. Assured of their obedience, Rumpelstiltskin began the next phase of his rule—expanding his kingdom. Gradually, the fairy became lax in her vigilance. This was why she kept her mirror hidden in her trunk of treasures. This why she did not know an auburn-haired beauty would break her dominion.

* * *

Rumpelstiltskin's strict and unconventional rule, earned him the title 'The Mad King'. Despite this moniker and the questionable state of his mind, the kingdom prospered and became a trading hub for textiles and slavery.

The eccentric king clothed himself in rich robes and paraded his wealth to neighbouring kingdoms. Envious of his blossoming economy, monarchies scampered to be his allies. Rumpelstiltskin, however, only made deals with desperate territories. Hefty rewards were promised should their deal come through. Blinded by greed, not many saw through the Mad King's designs. Even fewer saw his gratification at orchestrating events leading to the non-fulfilment of a contract. As a consequence, kingdoms and trade routes fell onto his lap.

As Rumpelstiltskin's influence expanded, his domain served as an entrepôt for much of the commerce between two major ports. Tradesmen brought languages and cultures, leaving locals little choice but to learn them in order to survive in the dog-eat-dog world. Opportunists would leave trails of scavengers just for a chance to climb the business ladder.

Among these colourful people was a company of touring performers. They brought with them theatrical acts that narrates the story of a puppet king. An auburn-haired storyteller travelled with them. Her name was Belle, aptly named for one as beautiful as the northern lights and as kind as summer. You could always find her sitting under an old oak tree, spinning tales of heroics and adventures to her eager little listeners.

Words of the performers' acts reached the king and roused his curiosity. It was the day after hearing the news that Rumpelstiltskin decided to investigate if the act was as impressive as claimed. He sat among the common people under the guise of a pauper in the enclosed space, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the odour in the cramped space. Cheers exploded from the audience when the ringmaster and his company burst forth from behind the stage curtains. After introducing themselves, drum rolls shook the air and the tent was basked in darkness, indicating the start of the show.

The performance was full of grandeur as claimed and Rumpelstiltskin found himself enjoying the story of the puppet king. But that was not to say he was ignorant; he knew it was a depiction of him. He wasn't deaf and was definitely not stupid. He knew of the whispers on the streets. Many believed Mathilda had him wrapped around her fingers, making him do her bidding. Words were he accumulated power and wealth to win her heart. What a foolish notion. He would rather lose part of his power than bed the harpy. When the show ended, the king thought such blatant disrespect toward a sovereign needed a punishment of equal measure. Fools who thought he was blinded by their disguises deserved a fool's death.

* * *

Three days later the king decreed the ringmaster and his performing entourage to be stringed and dressed like puppets in his court—they were to act out a battle scene with real arms. The stringed company buckled to their knees, begging for mercy. Ignoring their cries, the king commanded them to pick their weapon of choice.

The performers were forcibly dragged to the front of the court by the ropes tied to their limbs; varieties of weapon lay scattered at their feet. Thick silence pressed upon those present at court as they witnessed the performers chose their arms with heavy limbs. Blood would paint the castle's floor had the storyteller not prostrated herself in front of the king and begged for forgiveness.

"I beg your leniency, Your Majesty. I offer you my ability to bring stories and creatures to life if you were to spare my people," implored the storyteller. The king's attention perked up at her confession. "I can create dragons, ogres, and more. Release them and I am yours to command."

Rumpelstiltskin sat upright on his throne and steepled his fingers; his face was the mask of indifference. He had heard of people with such gifts, Echidna they were called, but thought they were none left in existence. In his folly, he sent ships to the farthest corners of the world in search for them, but all returned empty handed. The woman before him, however, claimed otherwise. The king cocked his head and pondered his options. Heavy stillness reigned over the court and time seemed to stand still.

Helplessness and fear cloaked the storyteller as she heard the king's approach. The slow and deliberate clacking of his heels on the marble floor sent shudders down her spine. She could feel the pinprick feeling of his eyes roaming over her prostrated form as he circled her. The stillness was deafening and she prayed the king would believe her words.

The king circled her a few times more before stopping somewhere to her right. The sound of scampering feet followed his order to bring him a collar. He then called for her to rise when presented with it.

"There, you are my slave now," the king said loudly after securing the collar around her neck. Enslavement, such was the price for the power of creation. "Prove to me that you are not lying. Conjure me a creature as black as the night. One that can perform the foulest of spells and destroys kingdoms and dragons," he said with a dramatic flair of his hands.

Leaning in further than necessary, the king whispered in her ear, "Storyteller, I command you to bring forth the legendary Dark One or your precious lambs pay the price."

Bound to the king, the storyteller did as commanded.


	2. Chapter 2

The legend told of a creature stealing children in the night. Word was it was evil personified. It played a tune on its flute every full moon, enchanting young ones from their beds. There were accounts of men who heard the lively song and saw children sleepwalking to its rhythm. Some even claimed they saw the creature prancing with its flute, children trailing not far behind. Whether or not they were true, the tales have the same ending: the children were never found. When this misfortune befell a poor village, desperate parents did everything to find their missing broods, but it was all in vain.

Like in most stories, a hero came to the rescue of these poor villagers. The hero was a woman who claimed that she could locate the lost children. In return for her service, the woman asked for gold, a payment that was too steep and beyond the parents' means, so the children remained missing.

Reports of lost children came and went like the tide. With time, it became a household tale to prevent the young ones from escaping into the night for a taste of youthful folly. The legend was almost forgotten until a similar incident happened in a quiet village.

Red Village was so-called due to its red soil. It gave the village a picturesque look during dusk and dawn. Travellers flocked to the village and paid handsomely for this beatific view. Tourism flourished and residents of Red Village lived a well-off life from the profit made. When news of missing children befell a neighbouring village, terrified Red villagers tied their young to their beds. Parents kept watch over their precious sons and daughters every nightfall—convinced the almost forgotten monster was real.

On the fourth night, deprived of sleep, the parents snored softly next to their children as a tune carried through the air.

The next morning the village was in an uproar. Half of the children were gone. Worried parents banded together and spread news of their willingness to pay in gold to whoever found the children. Like in the stories, a mysterious woman appeared in the village and offered assistance, for a price. Claiming herself a demon catcher and a powerful sorceress, she told them she could retrieve the missing children. Desperate, the villagers made a deal with her. In return for her service, they were to give her five bags of gold.

The following night a familiar melody once again enveloped the village. The demon catcher used magic to transform herself into a little girl. She took with her a glass vial, claiming it will be used to catch the demon, before following the enchanted children. The villagers only saw her two days later, sniffling children trotted quietly behind her and a black glass vial clutched in her right hand.

There was much joy from the parents as they embraced their offspring. They thanked the woman and gave her the bags of gold. Seeing two bags instead of the promised five, the woman lashed out and demanded them to meet their end of the deal. When they refused, she transformed her vial into a flute before shape shifting into a dark creature.

Fear and surprise mingled in the air as the children hid behind their parents, screaming that the dark creature was the one holding them captive. The creature unleashed destruction on the village, sending men, women, and children scampering for safety. Those who were weak and slow were devoured by her magic before they turned into ashes.

Few survived.

That was the first record that told of the creature's power. In the centuries that followed, travellers told tales of missing children and of charred villages and kingdoms. Some never knew the exact cause but they all share a pivotal character: a female dealmaker. And Rumpelstiltskin wanted power over this immortal being the stories called the Dark One. The storyteller had just given him his wish.

* * *

_The world is governed by rules…_

_Everything needs to be balanced…_

_Everything has its limits…_

_Nothing comes freely…_

_If they do, then the price might already have been paid…_

Those were the words from the Dark One before Rumpelstiltskin gave her his first order. The Dark One, who turned out to be a dark and beautiful woman, told him that her magic was no exception. It cannot break three rules: bring back the dead, force someone to fall in love, and change the past. And like the laws of the world, her magic comes with a price. She knew not in what form except that it would be collected when the time was right. Learning this, the king was cautious in his commands and his plans came to fruition slower than he envisioned. Better safe than sorry as they said. Over time, seeing no consequences from his requests, the king became emboldened and forgot about the price of magic.

What would take years to accomplish, the Dark One was able to realise it in months. The creature was everything he had hoped and his to command. The king controlled the Dark One through a dagger that was created along with her. It gave him authority over her and she was bound to fulfil his every whim as long as he wielded it.

Crazed in exercising the immense power, Rumpelstiltskin further ordered the creature to expand his kingdom. Nothing could placate his hunger. He wanted to be feared and known across the land and leave imprints of his triumph. As a result, kingdoms were destroyed and enemies smote down.

Mathilda, who was oblivious to these changes, was occupied in another realm. Reinvigorated by the king's soul, she traversed the world looking for more souls to consume. Failing to find anyone as desperate as Rumpelstiltskin, she dourly returned home.

At the first pinprick of a powerful dark magic, her body grew cold. Her magic prickled her skin, protecting her from the unknown power. With dread, she scrambled in search of her mirror, furious with herself at her negligence. Mirror in hand, her heart dropped at the image of an auburn-haired woman. She had heard the king had bought a stunning slave before she left, but never gave thought to it thinking it was a harmless purchase. Obviously, she was wrong.

The fairy gathered what little information she could in the tight-lipped society of Rumpelstiltskin's kingdom. He finally became what he had set out to do, be feared and powerful. Sorting through the wild stories was a chore, but two consistent facts stood out in the sea of rumours: the king purchased a slave and he created the Dark One. Mathilda wondered if they were one and the same.

It was in the middle of the king's conquest when the fairy confronted Rumpelstiltskin on his new acquisition. She wanted to know how he attained the Dark One, a creature that exists only in children's tales. Her interrogations came with a warning that it would be his undoing. The king however, was quite aggravated when questioned. He evaded her queries and sneered at every attempt made. That was until she shoved her glowing mirror at him. She was beside herself when he waved lazily at the image in her mirror.

"Aww, does the wee fairy fear a hapless maid?" he said in a singsong voice, clapping his hands like an exuberant child. The fairy could feel the last thread of her patience slipping when he wiped away invisible tears. "You're worrying over nothing, Mathilda. She's not the Dark One and most assuredly not a threat to either of us."

"You know this woman, then? Who is she?"

"Questions, questions, questions... so many questions from such a tiny person," he twittered, only to stop his evasions when the fairy made it clear her curiosity could not be mollified. "She's my slave, I doubt that qualifies as a threat. I think your mirror's broken."

"You know that's not possible. The mirror _**never**_ lies."

"There's a first for everything, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said in derision. "It's obvious your mirror has lost its magic."

"No it does not," the fairy growled, causing the king to raise an eyebrow. "Even if she's not the Dark One she must be of a greater threat for the mirror to show her instead. Everyone lives beneath a mask, Rumpelstiltskin. You should know that better than most. This woman could be a cutthroat for all you know. Do you want to see all you built crumble? Have you forgotten what happened the last time you brought a stranger to your castle? He ran off with your wife—"

The king was quite agile for a scrawny man. In an instant, he had a hand around her throat, making her heart beat wildly like a caged humming bird. "I tire of your ramblings, Mathilda. When I say she is of no concern, I meant it. She is bound to me and only I can command her. The storyteller is not a threat to either of us. She's as bound to me as the Dark One is to her dagger," he said. "Leave me before you regret it!"

Mathilda stumbled when the king shoved her. If looks could kill, Rumpelstiltskin's glare could have ended her then and there. Infuriated over his treatment, she let her temper loose, her tongue followed soon after. She let it slip that she'll destroy the storyteller. Furious, the Dark One was summoned. Seeing the legendary creature appear in the flesh momentarily stunned her. At the king's command, Mathilda felt the Dark One's magic flowed through her, forbidding her entry to his kingdom. With her hands bound, she decided to bid her time until an opportunity to strike rose.


	3. Chapter 3

As Rumpelstiltskin's power spread, tributes were sent by terrorised kingdoms to secure their safety and swear fealty. The king preened at his success. The storyteller on the other hand, passed her days in her windowless room, unseeing to the outside world. She was kept locked in her chamber by magic where only the king could access. Today was no better than yesterday, full of gloom and doom. The king's grand design was nearly coming to completion and more obstacles were falling at his feet. Such was the king's delight that he invited her to watch the devastation.

Up at the castle's turret the king watched in glee at the scene unfolding before him. His eyes moved wildly about the land as if he was moving chess pieces in his head. At the edge of the horizon, smoke rose into the greying sky. Belle, who observed everything with a wilting heart, could imagine the screams coming from that land. When the king proudly puffed out his chest and boasted of his brilliance, she dared a glance at his face. What she saw frightened her. She had always feared the king but never a deep-rooted terror as she had today. Shadowy wisps of smoke curled around him and his eyes were ablaze with malice; this was the monster everyone feared.

Excusing herself, she headed straight for her room, hoping its familiarity would calm her. For once she was grateful there were no windows. It blinded her, however temporarily, to what was happening outside its walls. Sitting on a settee, she let the tears fall. Her body shook as the waves of reality bore down upon her at the realisation of what she had given the king. She expected this, didn't she? But the magnitude of the ruin was beyond her imagination. Overwhelmed with guilt, she let darkness claim her.

It was midnight when Belle awoke. The lighted hearth gave her room a golden glow. She let herself believe she was back in her tent, the bonfire cackling in the distance. Sound of merriment would hum in her ears and she would join in the festive and dance in the cold night air. There was no black smoke, no ominous figures, or giggling mad king. She would be with her family. They would eat and toast to a life without boundaries and they would... they would...

Sighing, Belle gathered her dress around her as the chilly air seeped into her bones. It became harder and harder to recall her nomadic life as the months went by. She had no activities to occupy her time, only the stories in her head. Eventually she ran out of things to imagine; the stifling gloominess in the castle threatened to drown her in its bosom and steal away the smallest form of happiness. Oh how she would sacrifice an arm for a reading material. Blankly she looked around her extravagant room. She would have admired its beauty had it not been her prison. '_Another room, another prison,_' she thought.

Her last master was cruel. Scourges and flaying were part of a monthly routine. Cleansing, he called it. Said it was to wash away the grime of her magic, magic that he wasn't hesitant to use. She was glad he was not creative enough to ask for monsters, a monster like what she had created for the king.

Lying on her back, Belle stared at the ceiling. Others called her magic a gift; to her it was a curse. Fear was a constant in her life—that was before she found her adopted family. She was once asked why she did not take matters into their own hands. That would have been the easiest and obvious choice. Indeed it would, but it was also a cowardice choice. Life was too precious to be thrown away. She should know. Her mother had given up her life for her safety. Committing such act would be to sully her mother's sacrifice. No, she would never go down that path. She would use her wits as she had all those years ago. She escaped her first master; she could do the same with Rumpelstiltskin.

Pushing aside her dark thoughts, she gathered her tattered courage and rose from the settee. But she rose too fast. Coupled with her tiredness and clumsiness, she tripped over her dress. She would have landed on her head had someone not prevented the fall.

"Careful now, dearie, can't have you knock yourself to death," giggled a voice.

Belle whirled to face the king, wondering when he had entered her room. Realising he was still holding her upper arms and standing too close behind her, she cringed at the contact. He quickly let go, sneering at the look of revulsion on her face.

The sneer was still present on him as he looked her over, most probably to see whether she had hurt herself. Not that she could since he forbade her from inflicting self-harm. She could no more ignore his command than the Dark One could ignore the master of her dagger.

"You said you were ill," he said casually, as if he was commenting on the dull weather. 'Ill' was quite an understatement. She was more than ill. Repulsed; terrorised; miserable would aptly describe her state. Belle snorted loudly, causing the king to raise an eyebrow and looked at her in disguised perplexity. "I take it whatever caused the ailment has passed?" His knitted eyebrows and worried eyes drew out her ire. '_How dare he pretends to not know what triggered it?'_ she thought vehemently.

Months of aloneness and regrets had finally shattered what little patience and sanity she had left. And the reason why she snapped at the king.

"You know what caused it, Your Majesty." She curtsied mockingly and watched the concern melted off his face.

The king's apparent need for supremacy left her with a grimy feeling. Belle wondered if she would be able to wash the red stains off her hands. After all, she was partly responsible for the chaos wrecking the land.

"Was it everything you hoped?" The words tumbled out of her mouth. She hoped it burned his skin with its acidity.

The king was taken aback by her question, lost and confused to what she was referring to. The cloud of confusion dissipated when the meaning sinks in. Pursing his lips, he fixed her with a glare.

"Of course it was. Why would it not?" he said in a clipped tone. "King George is finally squashed like the filthy bug he is and Midas promised me a third of his kingdom's gold. These delight me, dearie." His fingers danced in the air.

Belle liked to think she had learned and knew enough about men to see past their masks. And Rumpelstiltskin was no exception, he just had one too many. Amid the showmanship that he clad himself in and the walls he built, there was no denying his last sentence was a question.

"Do they? I foresee that we'll pay a hefty price at the end." Belle watched him with half-concealed disgust, mindlessly tracing the faint line of a scar on her finger. Her thoughts took her to the day that she escaped her first master... the escape that resulted in his death and left her with more than the scar on her finger. She told herself it was no fault of hers; it was his price for using her magic. Magic always comes with a price as the old saying went.

"What makes you think that?" He forced out a laugh. Belle wondered if he had forgotten the Dark One's warning about magic.

"Because every action has a reaction. Every up has its down." She raised her chin and held his gaze. "Your reign won't last forever, Rumpelstiltskin. Nothing does."

Belle straightened her spine when the king leaned in a hairbreadth away. His eyes threatened to turn into slits and his rotting teeth caused bile to rise up her throat. She mentally congratulated herself for not trembling visibly like a shaken tree. "I'll excuse you for not using my proper title, storyteller," he hissed before spinning on his heels and giggling madly. Belle let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I'll last forever and so will my reign. You'd do well to fear me."

A scoff was Belle's only answer. Why should she stop her rant once it started? Maybe it'll force the king into a rage and kill her as an outlet. That'll release everyone of this madness that they created.

The king turned to look at her, surprise evident on his face. "I could turn you into a toad, you know. You wouldn't want that." At her lack of fear he added, "No? An annoying critter, then? Oh yes, that would suit you just fine."

"Oh I don't mind being turned into a cockroach. I can leave faecal matter on your food and breed an army to swarm your castle," Belle retorted. Rumpelstiltskin creased his forehead and his fingers fluttered nervously. Baffled by her response, the king did what all men did; he spluttered an inane comment, choosing to ignore the oddity that is the storyteller.

Belle felt triumphant. The menacing king was just a man after all.

Wanting their exchange to be over and done with, Rumpelstiltskin made a beeline for the door. Before he could exit, Belle called out his name. He turned and saw her fidgeting. Such contrast to the sharp woman a few minutes ago. He wondered what happened in the scant seconds that changed her demeanour. Soon he was trying to puzzle together this peculiar storyteller. She had been nothing but an obedient presence, a meek dormouse if you will, and then she surprised him by growing a backbone. Now she was back to being a dormouse. What a weird woman.

"If I were to live here for the rest of my life, could I at least have something to pass the time?"

Oh. He hadn't expected that. Then again, what did he anticipate? An apology? A proper conversation that he never knew he wanted? Such silly thoughts.

"Well, what do you want? Embroidery lessons? Dancing lessons? Pets?"

"Books... just books."

Confounded was probably the right word to describe Rumpelstiltskin's expression. There were not many women who sought enjoyment in reading and he found himself intrigued by her. This woman of no more than twenty-five and small in stature found pleasure in the written words. Her brilliant azure eyes still held that same sad tinge when he first enslaved her, but this time he could see a hint of steel in them. For a moment—like a candle flame doused in water—a twinge of compassion bloomed in his chest for her, a woman who was so unlike the ones that crossed his path. Shaking himself at the sudden feeling, he left with a curt nod and the promise of books.


	4. Chapter 4

The king didn't request her presence on the climax of his conquest. His plans fell in place and his dreams were finally realised after three long years. Everything was as he wished and peace finally descended upon the conquered lands. However, the same could not be said for the blood-curling screams erupting from the throne room. Lords and nobles from conquered lands who defied the king were personally tortured by him. It happened often enough that everyone measured the king's displeasure by the length of the scream. On those days, the castle inhabitants would make themselves scarce. No one wanted to face the irate king.

Another visible change came about in the castle, more specifically in the king, but no one dared to comment on it. When none of the council members could see the weakness in their policy, a servant did not steep his tea long enough, or the clean-up at his new territories were taking too long, the king would rant about them to the storyteller before blustering about the castle like a petulant child.

Belle didn't know why, but the king found a hobby in riling her up. It didn't escape her notice it started not long after her demand for reading materials. The first few times it happened, she wondered if he was so lonely to willingly subject himself to her idle chatter. Surely his ministers could provide more stimulating conversations? But as the weeks passed, she stopped questioning his motive. He was, after all, the only one who would and could talk to her. Deprived of human interactions, the storyteller latched on the king's company despite their differences.

Accustoming herself to his morbid humour took a while. When she learned to appreciate it, she found she rather liked his taciturn nature as long as she was not the recipient. As their familiarity with each other grew, she liked to think they had formed a reluctant friendship of sorts. Gradually, she peeled away the layers wrapped around the king as she oft did with others. She decided she quite liked the man she found beneath those masks. He was an interesting companion as long as his sanity was not overtaken by bloodlust.

One had to be a fool to not notice the shift around the castle. After years of shrouded in darkness, lightness was tangible in the castle's air. Whispers spread through the kingdom about this transformation and none expected this one particular change on a fine Sunday morning, not even the storyteller.

In the early morning of a Sunday, just as the sun was rising and scattering light over the land, Belle found herself staring out a high window.

A window that wasn't there yesterday or the months before.

A window where soft, warm rays of sunlight kissed her face in varying colours and patterns.

Gently, she traced its patterns, as if fearing it would shatter. She was startled out of her trance when a maid tapped on her shoulders. The woman told her the king requested her presence.

Belle could only look at the frumpy woman like a lost child. '_How did she get in?_' she thought to herself.

"You're required to dine with the king, so be quick about it. Else he'll have my head on a spike." The confusion must be evident on her face for the woman huffed out, "Stop gaping like a goldfish. It is just a window and me, nothing to stare in wonder at."

"But—but why?"

"How would I know what's on the king's head! Maybe he has taken a liking to you. Maybe he has finally got it into his head that keeping you cooped up in here with only him as a companion is not doing any good for that pretty head of yours. Mind you, I've been in the same situation, and living alone with no companionship is enough to drive me mad within a week. Don't know how you managed it this long."

The old maid continued her babbling; she was impatient and most probably exhausted judging from the dark circles under her eyes. She ushered Belle to her bathing tub and the storyteller smiled when no candles were needed to light up the room. Not when the room was bathed in sunlight from four high windows.

As the day progressed, no one but Fate knew that the coming nightfall would mark the beginning of the permanent intertwining of the storyteller's fate and the king's.

The storyteller was reading by the hearth when the door slammed open to reveal the man who had consumed her thoughts throughout the day. He walked in wordlessly and sagged into a nearby chair—a bottle threatening to fall from his loose grip. As the unpleasant smell of liquor assaulted her senses, the king's bleary eyes looked into nothingness; his occasional hiccup broke the dark quietness.

Belle had one too many unpleasant experiences with drunken men. The sight of Rumpelstiltskin in such state vexed her. She refused to be shackled to a master who was no better than her last. Alcohol did nothing but blur your senses and judgement. It made you half the person that you once were. He was supposed to be the all-powerful Rumpelstiltskin, for God's sake! Belle was about to call the guards when the beaten man, for that was what he looked to her, snickered and broke into a monologue. Or perhaps he was talking to invisible beings that she could not see. He spoke of his harsh upbringing, his cowardly father, and his child. Stunned was the word to describe her when no kind words were spared for his wife and it became apparent that no amount of soothing could ease his bleeding heart. And so Belle let him rage until he finally lost himself to sleep.

Covering him in her blanket, her hand tentatively crept up to push away a stray lock of hair. The man whimpered his son's name. Belle couldn't help the sympathy formed in her breast. Finally, the last layer was peeled and she couldn't unseen what was in front of her. Yes, Rumpelstiltskin was still a power-hungry king and killed people on a whim. The old policies left part of his people in poverty, but they were just that, old. In the past year he managed to amass more wealth than anyone could fathom and implemented policies that improved the lives of his subjects.

King Midas' wealth was evenly distributed among the new kingdom and each city has its own appointed steward to oversee the distribution of provisions. King George's armies that once toppled cities and terrorised neighbouring kingdoms now stood as an army who protects the new kingdom from external threats. In spite of the mountain of bodies that burned in this quest for power, no one could deny that their lives have improved. Uniting the lands under one ruler was an overdue strategy.

At the crack of dawn, a blanket was neatly folded on the chair, now empty of its night occupant. A cursive thank you note lay on it.


	5. Chapter 5

Being summoned was never a pleasant experience. A piercing pain would shoot through her whenever the king called. It grew in intensity when she ignored it like she did now. She could hear the king's voice reverberated through her being. Unable to withstand the torture she presented herself to him. "What took you long to appear before me, Hira?" the king asked, eyes hard as steel. She recounted her doings to the king and he nodded in satisfaction. With the enslaved ogres, they had safeguarded their western trade routes that were prone to banditry. The kingdom may have stabilised and the king feared, but there would always be one person who would defy the law.

Hira was about to magic'ed herself back to her station at the king's dismissal when she noticed a single red rose on the king's table. Bile rose in her throat. Over the passing months, she had noticed the king's growing infatuation. The changes started gradually; first, with the king's temperament. He was no longer volatile—easily ignoring his advisors' and servants' blunders. He even chose to spend most of his days with the storyteller. Although he donned his masks, Hira wasn't blind to how he slobbered over the woman like a beggar begging for attention. If she allowed this to continue, the king would free the storyteller and her life would be forfeit. As long the king had her enthralled, she remained bound to him, but everything has a loophole. Thus, she began plotting her survival; besides, the castle was full of desperate souls to ensnare.

It wasn't long till she found her pawn.

* * *

Caleb was a young man who found happiness at the bottom of his pint. So strong was his love for it that there was not a day where he didn't have less than five of them. Getting thrown out of taverns and beaten up for his debts became a weekly routine. His work in the castle's kitchens suffered and he was nearly dismissed when the reeve caught him stealing bottles of wine. Lucky for him, his sister was the reeve's wife. If not for her pleading, he would be crawling on the streets instead of nursing his empty stomach as he was now.

Someone grumbled an insult behind his back. Turning his bleary eyes on the person, he threw an insult at him. Slurs were traded, until finally, temper rose and they got into a brawl. In his inebriated state, Caleb ended up with a bloodied nose and broken teeth. Hefting himself up and screaming curses at his assailant he left the castle grounds and took the road leading to town. No one noticed the ominous figure that hid behind the shelves. Neither did they see the wicked smile before she magic'ed herself away.

The pouring rain caused Caleb to take refuge in an abandoned hut. His need for mead was temporarily put on hold as he waited out the rain. Busy keeping himself warm, he didn't notice an old woman approaching the hut. The dull thud of her staff on the murky ground alerted him to her presence. The startled man turned to look at the comer. She nodded her head in greeting and flashed a crooked smile before taking a seat on a rickety chair. A long stretch of silence hummed in the air as the pair stared out the broken windows.

"Wretched weather today ain't it?" the woman broke the silence.

"Like every other day," grumbled the young man.

"I'm headin' to town, but the rain destroyed my wares. What about you, young man, yer headin' somewhere?"

Caleb answered rudely and hoped it was enough to stop any lines of questioning. It didn't. The woman prattled on about her life and the people she had met. Occasionally she'd ask him if he had done the things she had, to which he answered monotonously. Their conversation, if it could be classified as such, was stilted. That was until they got to the topic of the king.

The elder of the two cackled as the young one listened with rapt attention. She wove him tales of a dagger that controlled the Dark One; stories of the riches and power to be gained if one controlled it.

"If only he would part with it," Caleb said wistfully.

"Oh he does," the woman smirked. "He has to eat; sleep; bathe at one point. There must be a time where he takes it off. Just imagine the sheer power you'll wield!" she chuckled, baring her rotting teeth.

The young man asked how the woman knows this but she never answered his question. Instead, she took out bottles of mead from her basket, one that Caleb sworn wasn't there before, and handed it to him. Looking at the offering like a man dying of thirst, he gulped it down like water. The old woman could see the pieces of puzzle moving in the man's head; a light of hope and greed burned in his eyes before he fell into an unconscious sleep.

When morning came, she was gone.

Blaming it on the mead, the young man headed to the castle. A nagging voice at the back of his head however, could not stop seducing him with a future of power and wealth.

* * *

The summer sun smiled brightly on the vast land, unaffected by the insignificant humans moving about the day to make ends meet. A lone figure sat hunched on a stone bench. His dark, greenish hair curtained his profile. He was entranced by an object that he did not hear the crunching of leaves caused by heavy boots.

"That was my favourite book as a child." Belle's silent approach jolted the king from his musings.

Taking a seat next to him, Belle couldn't help but grin when the king scooted away.

"Thank you for the present. I never got to thank you properly," Belle started. The king looked at her with confusion. "You lifted the restriction. Thank you for that." His shoulders were tensed but he gave her a tight smile nonetheless. If she squinted hard enough, she could see the deep tinge of red that coloured his cheeks. This was how their conversation always started: awkward, tentative, and stilted. Taking pity on him, she pointed at the book and told him of its contents. She told him her favourite tales and their characters, talking with gusto at the climax of each story. Slowly but surely, the man opened up to her.

"You and my son have the same taste in adventures, it seems. I have lost count on the number of times the healer had to treat him after he acted out parts of the escapades," the king said with a hint of warmth in his voice. He opened the book and flipped to a tale of a nutcracker prince. It was his child's favourite. She could hear the smile in his voice when he told her this, his hair blocking her view of him. Soon they found themselves in a comfortable discussion about fairy tales and his son—talking in hushed tones as if they were sharing precious secrets of their hearts.

There was no mistaking the wistful look on Rumpelstiltskin's whenever he spoke of his son. An idea came to Belle and she bit her lower lip before forming it into words. "Would it be too presumptuous to suggest we read your son a story?"

At the king's scowl she quickly added, "It was once said on the fifteenth of every month, spirits roam the land of the living. Whether there is a grain of truth, I do not know. What I do know is you never give up on a chance. That way Baelfire knows you still remember him... still loves him. Maybe... just maybe it'll help you to heal." The storyteller watched as the king's eyes took on a faraway look. When he turned his sights back on her, she was taken aback by the raw emotions in his eyes. It wasn't until the king told her to breathe that she noticed she was holding her breath. No one could convince her that the soft tug at the corner of his lips was not a smile. She refused to believe it was anything but that.

Ever since Belle suggested reading to his son, the king often found himself standing outside her door, hand raised and ready to knock. He wanted her there with him—to spin her stories of course since she was the better storyteller. Not because he liked their exchanges or the fact that her presence soothed him. His courage always faltered as soon as he convinced himself of his intentions. This was why he always found himself alone at his son's grave on the fifteenth of every month.

Today, the king once again stood in front of an all too familiar door. He was beginning to hate that door. As he was about to walk away a muffled voice piped up, "You should stop this nonsense." His body thrummed in response. He wondered briefly on this feeling of... anticipation? Nervousness? Waving the foreign emotions away he collected himself before opening the door. An ethereal loveliness greeted him, temporarily dismantled his mask. He babbled nonsense about being as healthy as a spring chicken when she asked of his wellbeing. When her azure orbs light up with merriment, his thought his heart might burst at her radiance. He knew in that moment he might be in deeper trouble than he initially thought.

* * *

Large pine trees hid the place from view. In the middle of the clearing was a mighty oak tree, sheltering a lone grave. The grave was not what the storyteller expected. Its modesty surprised her. A soft bed of grass covered the raised earth and wild flowers grew sparsely around it. A marble tombstone with carved golden letters was the only luxurious thing within the vicinity. On it, she noticed the rough engravings (she suspected it was the king's handiwork):

_You dance inside my chest,_

_Where no one sees you._

_Rest now, Baelfire, my Little Truth_

Belle approached the grave and kneeled at its side. Her hands traced the engraved words.

"My little boy loved it here."

The storyteller raised her head and saw the king kneeling on the opposite side.

"He had many adventures on that tree. Each one succeeded in greying my hair," he recalled softly. Soon she found herself listening to his recollection of his son's escapades. The underlying sadness in his words was ever-present beneath the jovial front. When he found himself lost for words, she gestured to the book in his hands.

Their fingers brushed when the kind handed her the book. Sitting where she kneeled she began reading the story of a little tin soldier, ignoring the lingering tingles where the king's fingers' brushed hers.


	6. Chapter 6

A letter lay open on a mahogany table. The figure in the chair stared at it with contempt. Another letter, another pardon. There had been one too many begging for leniency on their late tributes. He had been negligent in his ruling and the rulers are taking advantage of it. The Dark One's dagger had been cheapened to a mere letter opener, but after a constant flow of such letters, he thought it was time to unleash the creature upon them.

Twirling the dagger in his hand, he wondered idly on the best punishment for their insolence. Selling their loved ones into slavery would be a fitting sentence. Oh, he loved it when they grovelled at his feet. Begging. Wailing. Decided, Rumpelstiltskin summoned the Dark One. The command was at the tip of his tongue when the storyteller barged in with a dazzling smile. The smile was short-lived, however. It vanished instantaneously when she noticed the ominous presence. The king could not help the twinge of disappointment at the loss. Dismissing the Dark One to relay the threat of wealth, the king invited the storyteller to a seat. The couple failed to notice the slight singe in the carpet where the creature stood.

"You called, Your Majesty?" Belle asked once the ominous presence left the room.

"Yes. I have something that might be of interest to you." Rumpelstiltskin took out what appeared to be stacks of paper. As Belle edged closer to his desk and read the heading, a smile once again formed on her lips. She excitedly flipped through them as she greedily took in the words. It was a draft of a written law on education, something they once conversed in passing.

* * *

There was a tangible tension in the king's study. Rumpelstiltskin found Belle's stubbornness and idealistic views to be his constant source of frustration these days. It stemmed from her disagreement on the stipulation of the written clause. He argued the strain it would have on the kingdom's finances if every single child were to be given free schooling. He may be powerful and his kingdom wealthy, but with the steep population increase, his kingdom would suffer if he were to largely invest in it.

The matter was further complicated when only a handful of wealthy merchants were willing to fund schools. The monasteries on the other hand isolated themselves to the outside world. Whatever knowledge they had, they guarded it jealously. Taking it from them by force would cause uproar among the religious, and that was the last thing he wanted. There are not many lords willing to allow their peasants to be educated. The rest were fearful their future might be threatened. The peasants might start questioning the way things were done and a revolt might occur. Ultimately, it'll affect the kingdom's stability.

It appeared the effort he put into stringing the law could never be enough to placate his storyteller. There were too many variables to consider.

Belle was silently fuming next to the fireside while he violently stoked the flames. The silent tension did not sit well with him. He could take any insult and anger hurled his way but not those from his little storyteller. He did not know when or why he began to care for such trivial things especially coming from a supposed slave. Then again it had been a while since he last thought of her as such despite the collar that still clung to her neck. She had made a home in his shrivelled heart and he wondered how she had lodged herself there. Grappling for something to say, the king did not notice the hand that stilled his. He ran his eyes along the length of the limb. Upon reaching the owner's face he saw the glinting eyes. A crinkle at their edges told him all was well between them. He wondered when they started to read one another so well.

Sighing over their foolishness, he decided to present Belle with his second gift, one he was reluctant to tell when she did not agree with his decisions. Today was the day where the sky would light up in vibrant shades of colours. Knowing she yearned to see such spectacle, Rumpelstiltskin wanted to show her its wonder. Disbelief and awe warred in her gaze when he told her of the Northern Lights. Mentally applauding himself, he told her to meet him in his study at sundown.

* * *

"How do we get to the mountains?" chirped a curious voice to his left. Turning, the king was amused to see the ball of anxiety that was his companion.

"With these of course," the king said pointing to the pair of silver slippers on his feet.

Unable to hold in her amusement the storyteller snorted loudly, the king only raised an amused eyebrow.

"These are magical shoes, my dear. They transport the wearer to any place his heart desires." He held out a clawed hand. "Now, shall we?"

Taking the king's hand the storyteller looked in wonder at the slippers. He knocked his heels together three times and the pair disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke. In the blink of an eye, the couple found themselves standing on what appeared to be a plateau. The storyteller squealed when the first tell-tale sign of the Northern Lights paints the sky. The happiness exuded from the woman was so palpable that Rumpelstiltskin was certain the Dark One could bottle it. But right now was not the time for such thoughts. The Dark One had no place here. No vile creature would touch this beauty dancing to the music of the lights.

The pair talked well into the night and Belle told him of stories behind the constellations. He knew them of course, but he listened anyway. Anything that came from those sweet lips of hers slaked the ridiculous longing in his breast.

As time passed, the air grew colder and the light went dimmer. "Time to go," the king said when the storyteller started to shiver. Holding out a trembling hand one could say he was almost afraid of her reaction. They hardly touched and the few accidental brushing were kept as precious moments hidden in the far recess of his mind. She surprised him by wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Thank you," she mumbled in his chest. He smiled and briefly kissed the top of her head before he lost his courage. The smell of the forest must have settled on her for her hair smelled of pine trees. Few errant curls stood at odd angles due to her dancing and they tickled his nose. Careful not to scratch her skin with his clawed nails, he gently wrapped his arms around her before transporting them home. Home, a word that had become so foreign to him and one he had not associated with the castle for a long time.

When the couple appeared in his study, Belle still had her arms around him. For a moment he thought she might have fallen asleep. He whispered her name, telling her they have arrived. Dazedly, she looked up at him and slowly let her hands fall to her sides. When he commanded the stationed guard to escort her back, something flickered across her face, a hint of hesitation in her eyes. She was undecided about something, but before he could ask, she curtsied and bid him goodnight. Rumpelstiltskin was sure she was about to kiss him but shook his head at the ludicrous thought.

* * *

_What was this feeling that flooded him? He saw himself letting her go. Saw her walking away from him… forever. He searched and searched but he had no answers. All he knew was this desire of wanting to be close to her. Be surrounded by her. He wanted to bask in her brilliance and lay his head on her chest. Being near her felt like coming home, but he has no right wanting such things, not when he had enslaved her against her will. His heart bled a little at the thought. When he heard her scream he ran through bushes of thorns, but he was too late. Her body lay broken in the mud; daisies surrounded her form before darkness consumed her._

The king struggled against his sheets and woke up in beads of sweat. His heart hammered against his chest and whimpered at the thought of losing Belle. When had he fallen in too deep? When did it start? After all these years of aloneness, why now and why _her_? Everything turned to dust at his touch and he had no right to mark Belle with his darkness. He should send her away, but it was too late. It had marked her and death will take her as it did his son.

Despondent, the king headed to his only place of solace.

Sitting on the damp ground beside the grave, he caressed the tombstone and let the tears fall. He knew not how long he has lain there nor did he care. When something hit him on the head he was brought out of his misery and snarled at the offender. No one was there. When another object hit his back he turned and shouted into the darkness. Someone giggled before emerging from behind the oak tree.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're real," the king choked out. "You're alive!"

His incredulous eyes took in the sight of the slight boy standing before him. "My boy!"

He pulled his son into a tight hug. The boy's dark mane tickled his cheeks and he buried his face in it. Slowly, he pulled away to look at his son's face. He still had his baby fat around his cheeks and they were pink with life. The eyes however, were apologetic. A tiny hand reached for his calloused one and squeezed it.

Baelfire told him of the Northern Lights. He told him its intensity coincides with the fifteenth that it created a bridge between the spirit world and that of the living. Once the light diminished, he'd be gone. The king howled and begged him to stay. He only quieted down when his son cupped his cheek. Opening his eyes he looked into a pair of sad brown eyes.

"I came to tell you that I love you. My passing was no fault of yours." Baelfire smiled. Oh how he missed that smile. "And I want you to know that I heard your stories, yours and the Storyteller's." Rumpelstiltskin started at that.

"I heard them and I loved them." His boy looked at the sky and then back at him. "I have to go now. Sorry, Papa." Like a pathetic dog he whimpered and tried to grab his son, but his fingers went through the boy's body.

"Yes, son?" he said feebly when he son called him.

"The storyteller, trust her with your heart." With that, his boy disappeared.

Helplessness settled heavily in his chest. It was enough for madness to tear away at his last shred of sanity. Was he even sane to begin with? _'Trust her_,' his son had said. How could he do that when everything warned him against her? He wasn't blind to the Dark One's uneasiness and his advisors warned him of his attachment. They told him of Belle's hidden agenda, which they failed to prove. Regardless, he should keep her away from him. No good came to those who associated themselves with him.

He missed his son, now more than ever. What little he tasted of that brief happiness left him wanting more. Its raw intensity frightened him. His mind told him to search for Belle, only she can quench his burning need. But he needed to stay away before he did something unforgivable. When he came to himself he found he was standing in front of _her_ door. Lost in his warring thoughts he did not hear the movements behind the door. It opened to reveal a concerned pair of eyes. The lithe woman all but dragged him into her room and led him to his chair—the one he always claimed when he was in her room. His brain hardly registered it when she told him his hands were freezing. Daring a glance at her eyes he saw the hints of concern amidst a sea of curiosity. He lost all sense of composure when she touched his face.

He could not go on like this: crushed with emptiness and desiring something he can neither have nor be worthy of. For the first time in years he wanted to be deserving of someone. Tonight had awakened that despair he had repressed. If his son were here with him these hollow feelings would disappear. Baelfire's presence would end these nonsensical feelings for Belle, because that was what they were—irrational emotions brought about from years of loneliness. It was lunacy to think she would welcome his affections. Belle deserved better. He needed his son to keep him balanced and her safe. He needed his son because he was the only person who could love him. Without Baelfire he is lost, and it showed in his first request to Belle. Instead of asking for his son, he wanted power. What kind of father had he become?

"Belle," he whispered, "I know what I want for a second request." She looked at him with dread but he was too clouded with grief to notice it. "I want my son."

* * *

Empty brown eyes looked at the toys his father laid out. Maids stood as close as they could to the farthest corner of the room. The closest one stood on shaky legs, eyes constantly darting to the door. His father was oblivious to it all and smiling with maniacal eyes. Taking the stuffed toy from his father, he tried to feel the softness of the fabric. He couldn't of course, just like everything in this world of the living. Food turned into ashes in his mouth, water into air and touch into nothingness. Oh he felt so empty, devoid of everything except for a yearning to crossover to the spirit world.

Belle would look at him through sombre eyes. The servants said she had changed—walking with heavy shoulders as if an unseen weight was wearing her down. Her strained smiles looked stretched and brittle on her gaunt face. He never tried to comfort her. How could he when he himself was confused by his surroundings? Sometimes she would find him staring out a window, quietly waiting for the Northern Lights. She never said anything, only stood there by his side—his silent companion. Once, she came to him to apologise. Told him she tried her best to dissuade his father, but like the Dark One she was bound to him. Belle was nice; he liked her a lot. She promised she'd find a way to send him back. Baelfire frowned sadly at the memory. It was a futile endeavour. His existence was worse than the hands of Death ripping his soul from his body. He was neither living nor dead.

Baelfire was brought to the present when his father cupped his face. The boy took a quick glance at his father's eerie eyes before letting the toy drop. Turning away from his father he dragged his feet to his room, unaware and uncaring of his father's stiffened posture. He wanted to express his pain but no tears came for he could not remember how to cry.

* * *

Rumpelstiltskin sat alone in the privacy of his study. His unfocussed eyes stared at nothing in particular while his mind taunted him. The scene with Baelfire from earlier today burned in his eyes. The longer he wallowed in it, the more his mind replayed similar events from the past five weeks. He closed his eyes at the onslaught while his nails dug deep into the chair's arms.

The searing heat from the thin golden band on his index finger fed on his insecurities. Every single bone in his body screamed. They told him to use the ring to control his Baelfire and that it was the only means to get a reaction from his Little Truth. Rumpelstiltskin was abhorred at the knowledge that his son was a slave to the ring just as Hira was to her dagger. But that was the ways of the Echidnas' magic—each creation is controlled by an object. And whoever wielded the object has power over it. Instantly, shame enveloped the king. In his desperation he made his son a slave. Now, the temptations to control him were getting harder to resist. What a weak fool he had been to think such thoughts would never cross his mind.

The broken man moaned in his hands. He only wanted his son back, not the lifeless flesh who haunted his castle. Lifeless. Another moan escaped him. It was not a word he would associate with Baelfire. Now however, his son was nothing but that. This boy with his dead-looking eyes was not his son. He may look like him but the soul and spirit that made him Baelfire were missing. Was this why the Dark One said the dead could not be brought back and what Belle tried to warn him of?

There were a number of times where he came across Belle and his son gazing into the night sky. She would have her arms wrapped around his boy and they would stare blankly out a window. Sometimes they would whisper words that were lost in the cold night air. He dared not intrude for fear of breaking the tranquillity as those were the only times that Baelfire looked remotely content.

In hushed tones the servants said his sweet child was an abomination, an unnatural being that defied the law of nature. In anger, he silenced their whispers and fed himself lies. But lies are not meant to be permanent.

The king tried to bring life inside his Little Truth, but they all ended in failure. Baelfire begged to be laid to rest, but Rumpelstiltskin would never do that, so he held on despite the pain it caused everyone involved. Belle would look at him with sympathy, a look that would send him retreating to a dark place. He could not bear to see the feelings etched on her face. Could she not see his child was his lifeline? Without him he would regress to the monster everyone accused him of and destroy her with his desires. There was only so much of his wanting that he could control.

When a hand touched Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder, he coiled like a spring. "You need to free him, Rumpelstiltskin," said a voice followed by another gentle squeeze. Tender hands turned him to face their owner, but he could not bring himself to meet the owner's eyes. She talked of suffering, freedom, and consequences, but he listened half-heartedly. As her hands once again tried to reach out to him, he slapped them away. His study table became a barrier. He ranted at her, told her that nothing in the world made sense anymore.

At the end of his tirade, Rumpelstiltskin looked into the azure eyes of the storyteller. He imagined living a simple and different life where Baelfire was their son. Oh what useless fantasy. He closed his eyes at the torrential emotions.

Out there in the world Belle's death is certain. Many would use her magic and took advantage of her beauty. He had little choice but to keep her near, but he also dreaded what he might do with her just a hairbreadth away. Baelfire was the only anchor to his sanity. With him here he would not want for more… he wouldn't want her.

Even if his son was a mere shadow of his former self, Rumpelstiltskin loved him regardless of his state. His son's love was enough to sustain him. It _had_ to be enough. Anyway, who wouldn't want a second chance at life? His Baelfire more than deserved to be given that opportunity.

Rumpelstiltskin barely caught himself from confessing his feelings to the woman who staunchly looked at him with dejected eyes. Belle should never know. Her rejection would smite him down.


	8. Chapter 8

Sounds of shuffled papers and harsh muttering echoed through a still library. Five armed men lay unconscious on the polished floor. A figure moved about the room in frenzy, walking over strewn books and papers. Her frantic movements halted when faint sparks of magic stung her fingertips as they brushed against a leather-bound book. Wide-eyed, she removed the book from its place with trembling fingers and laid it on the closest table. Mathilda flipped through the dusty tome only stopping when she found what she had been searching. Gulping down her fears she read the written words.

Dated back to the last three centuries the Fairy Council, bound by their magic from killing mortals, had manipulated mankind in annihilating those who can bring stories to life. Too much destruction was created by those who enslaved these people. Echidna was what they were called and only death can take away their ability. Releasing the tight grip she had on the tome she continued reading the passage:

_Limited to only five creations, the Echidnas must be enslaved for their magic to work. They are compelled to do their master's bidding. The power that wields control over an Echidna's creation comes in various forms. These conjured beings are only permanent after the creation of the fifth creature, wherein means the Echidna's death. If the Echidna were to die before creating the fifth being or were freed from enslavement, whether by the master or on his/her own, their creations will perish._

As the fairy read further the more agitated she became. With the storyteller's ability and the king's cunningness, he could easily become the most powerful ruler. He already had the Dark One in his thrall and wasted the second gift on his dead child. From what she had gathered the woman was once a slave to a fool for whom she conjured two beings. Somehow she escaped and lived a nomadic life before she was enslaved by Rumpelstiltskin.

Anger and fear welled up in her. She needed the storyteller dead. One could only guess the king's thoughts. There was no knowing what the beauty had spun around him—after all, Rumpelstiltskin was only a man. A lonely man who could easily fall for the woman if she played her cards right. With every chance on the woman's life closed to her, she wondered if this would be the time her reign would end. No. She couldn't—wouldn't—let that come to pass. Rumpelstiltskin's soul is hers. If he confessed his love to Belle it would break the magical bind she has on his soul. Then, how else would she sustain her life force?

The feeling of being watched broke Mathilda's train of thought. Ghostly fingers trailed down her neck. She sharply turned to her right. A frown marred her ageless face and wild eyes scanned the length of the room. There! At the corner or the library stood an ominous figure cloaked in darkness.

"How you managed to survive to a century I shall never understand," the creature sneered.

"The coward has finally sent you to kill me, has he?"

The creature chuckled darkly. "No. I come with a truce."

Mathilda looked at the Dark One through narrowed eyes.

"I need someone to move a certain pawn in the right direction… and you're the best candidate there is. In return, you'll get your heart's desire."

"You're the mighty Dark One; surely you do not need a proxy to play this game?"

The Dark One smiled tightly before leaving her corner to approach the fairy in slow strides. "Enthralled as I am by the king, I can still bend the rules tying me to him. However, there are limits to which I can twist them," she sneers. "I can't do anything that might directly harm him. Neither can I conjure anything without his explicit command." Hira stopped a foot away from Mathilda before lowering her hood. The air in the room, if it was possible, became darker and heavier.

"The king is going to station me in the west to guard his precious ports for however long it'll be. So you see that leaves me in a rather tight spot." The Dark One faked a pout. "I can neither leave my post nor offer riches to those who would bed my means to an end. Not that I blame them." Hira circled the fairy with a scrutinising look. "Ugly as a pig and poorer than a rat, he is. Who would want to associate themselves with a downtrodden man? But I know you're desperate to end the storyteller and will do anything for an opportunity." The woman stopped in front of the fairy. "So, I offer you a deal: you'll have access to the storyteller and can do whatever you wish with her as long as you help me get my dagger. Do we have a deal, Mathilda?"

"Wouldn't her death mean yours, too?"

"Don't worry your pretty head over me. I'll live through this and for many years to come." Hira gave her a slimy smile. "His name is Caleb; a pimply man who frequents the taverns. I'm sure you'll be able to handpick him amongst the trashes. All you need to do is tempt him with sweet nothings. Tempt him and he'll do exactly as I've planned. He and the dagger will be mine and she will be yours."

"How would I know you shan't kill me after?" the fairy glared.

"What do I gain in killing you? I only want my freedom." With that, Mathilda agreed to the terms.

* * *

"If you're late again do not bother coming… ever." Caleb cringed at the king's clipped tone. Controlling his breathing and quaking hands, he went about to serve the king and his son. He had been delayed, once again, by the arms of Catrina, a lissom blonde beauty. Smitten was he by her on their first encounter that he made tall tales to impress. Luck would have it that she bought his lies. He wondered what he did right to gain her attention. Women avoided him and saw right through his words, but not Catrina. Sweet, darling Catrina with her ample bosoms, she made him feel good about himself.

On their first encounter, an arm-full of said woman pressed herself against him after a few rounds of drinks and conversations. With heated eyes she took his hands and led him to the dark alley behind the tavern. He lost count on the ways and places that he brought her pleasure. Masculine pride surged through him whenever he passed those locations.

A month into their meetings, he decided Catrina was not a flighty woman. He wanted to keep her and so promised her riches and power. Caleb intended to hold on to that vow, especially after he received a taste of her talents after uttering those words. His ego swelled at the thoughts of last night. Finally, his life had pieced itself together.

The sound of a whimper brought him out of his musings. Prince Baelfire was trying to pry opened his father's grip. Heaving a sigh, the king released his clutch, watching with solemn eyes as his son ran from the room. Taking off his robe, the king slumped on his chair, eyes staring vacantly out the window.

Out the corner of his eye, Caleb saw the object of his dreams glinting in the sun's light. The dagger was tied loose to the king's waist. Ever since that chance encounter with the old woman he had worked himself back to a position of trust. It wasn't easy, but he had finally established himself as a reliable worker. Dreams of a powerful dagger plagued him while ghostly whispers told him to search for it. He had scoured every accessible corner but failed at every attempt. That was until he stumbled upon the king stowing away a knife in a secret compartment. He tried to unlock it but gave up when it refused to open. At first, he was uncertain whether it was the Dark One's dagger. Anyway, no one knew what it looked like, but it was eerily familiar to his dreams so he decided to observe.

With time, Caleb noticed the pattern with which the king took it off him; it was always on the fifteenth of each month. It was a mystery at first as to why and where he disappeared to on those days. Judging from the path taken it was to his son's grave. The king tried to be discreet about his destination, but Caleb knew of enough secret passages and peeping holes to uncover the answer. Later on, the king started to take the storyteller along on these visits. Once, they stopped a little too close to his hiding place that he caught part of their hushed conversations. The storyteller asked the king why he did not have the dagger on him. The king replied that an object that controls evil should not mar the purity of his son's grave. Caleb snorted loudly at the king's sentimentality. He was fortunate that the wall was too thick to carry his stupidity to the pair.

After the dead prince was revived, the dagger never left the king's side. Caleb moaned at his misfortune; his dreams seemed to turn into ashes. This however, didn't last long. In the fourth month of the Prince's revival, Caleb noticed that the king once again traversed the path that led him to his son's grave sans storyteller. Ever since then, it became a weekly routine and the dagger was back in its secret compartment on these visits—well, not so secret since he knew its location. Caleb assumed the failed attempts at reconnecting with the prince triggered it, but the workings of the mad king's mind were of no importance to him. What mattered was the dagger. All of his wishes and longings lie on it.

"Your Majesty…" Caleb started tentatively, but the king waved his hand in dismissal. Silently, he exited the room. In his trek back to the kitchen he told himself that people suffering emotional exhaustion would always make a mistake. It was only a matter of time. As cunning as he was the king is just a man. Rumpelstiltskin would be careless, leaving him with the opportunity to swoop down on his bounty. He could feel it in his bones that his desires would be soon realised.

Everything changed on a beautiful Sunday morning when Caleb found a skeleton key underneath the king's bed. He was elated to discover that it could open any kind of locks.


	9. Chapter 9

Belle knew she would find Rumpelstiltskin at his son's grave. Lost in his thoughts he did not hear her calling. Only when she crouched next to him did he acknowledge her presence. She said nothing and tried to channel her strength through her action. She applied gentle pressure on his hand; he squeezed hers in return and let the tears fall. She cradled his head against her chest and held him until the sobs subsided. Immersed in their little world they weren't aware that Baelfire stood looking at them a mere ten feet away. The king stiffened when his son called him – apprehension apparent on his face.

With a smile, Baelfire he approached them and stroked his father's cheeks. A strangled moan escaped Rumpelstiltskin and the three figures huddled closer. Weariness from the past months poured out in waves from the clustered group. The king apologised for his actions and begged for forgiveness from both of his beloved. They told him all was pardoned and wiped away his tears. Regaining his composure, Rumpelstiltskin sworn to his son that he would always be loved and remembered. With a watery smile he embraced the two people he loved before stumbling over the words that would release them.

In the dense forest not far from the grave, Hira's plan was close to crumbling. Her temper rose when Caleb refused to yield the dagger. She could feel it in her being the king was close to utter the command that would unbind the storyteller to him. Fear of her plan failing rose like the tide. Having her essence scattered to the wind was not part of it! With a quick warning glance to Mathilda, the fairy spun sweet words to the man. Hira was close to throttling him when he refused for the third time. The only way for her to own the dagger is if it was freely given. The meek man finally relented and looked on in confusion as Mathilda handed Hira her dagger.

A surge of power rushed through Hira the moment her fingertips touched it.

"Fulfil your end of the bargain, Dark One," the fairy growled. With a wave of her hand the fairy was freed from her confinement.

"That was it? You promised me the woman!"

"Funny thing about the deal, my dear, was that I never specifically promised her in person," Hira drawled. "My end of the contract was to give you entrée and so I had."

Eyes wild with fury the fairy threw a series of spell at the Dark One, which she effortlessly obliterated.

"I suggest you fly to them now. The magic binding his soul to you will weaken once he confesses his love to them. You'll be powerless without your source of sustenance." With that, the fairy shot up into the sky, but not without sending another blast of magic at the Dark One. She missed, of course.

Somewhere in their bickering, Caleb had managed to slither away. Rolling her eyes, Hira snapped her fingers. The cowering man appeared in front of her in a cloud of smoke, quivering violently as he caught sight of her smile. Hira thanked him before plunging the knife in his heart. Dark tendrils of magic flowed from the dagger and into the gasping man. The Dark One faded as her magic and essence inhabited his body before silence encompassed the room.

A shuddering sigh broke the hush. Caleb opened his eyes as the dagger hit the ground. He looked at his hands in wonder before bending down to pick up the object. Caressing it, the man uttered a word: freedom. '_Finally I am free from the woman's magic!_'

Possessing Caleb's body broke the bond binding the Dark One to the storyteller's magic. Hira revelled in the feeling of soft human flesh covering her body and the blood pounding in her ears. What strange sensations! Briefly she wondered if possessing a woman's body would feel the same. Maybe she should trick a fairy into doing the deed. Would it increase her magical ability? With endless possibilities circulating her head—or was it his head?—did it matter? Hira snorted at such silly thoughts, she didn't care a whit for genders. They are after all the same.

Calling on his magic, the new Dark One disappeared from the room, but not before cackling as the storyteller's magic failed to claim him at her release. He is after all no longer tied to anyone. What a powerful feeling it was to be your own person and master. As long as he owns his dagger, he is a slave to no one.

* * *

At Belle's release, the collar glowed white before it dematerialised while Baelfire disappeared without any fanfare. First he was there and the next he wasn't. When Rumpelstiltskin looked to Belle to convince himself that she still exists, he hoped to find compassion in her eyes. Instead, fear dominated her azure orbs as she was whisked away by a brilliant emerald light. '_MATHILDA!_' his mind screamed at him. Rumpelstiltskin thought his heart might burst from sheer agony. His fears finally realised themselves at the most inopportune moment. Remembering the Dark One's dagger he sprinted to his chambers. He would set Hira on the blasted fairy and ensure a long and excruciating death. In his chambers, his heart nearly gave out when he found the dagger was missing. Soon, bells were rung and guards sprang into action.

Chaos reigned over the kingdom in the coming weeks as the king relentlessly searched for his storyteller. The search was long and arduous and all traces led to a blockade. His advisors and ministers counselled him against such pointless quest but the king was adamant. The weeks stretched with no end in sight. However, on the sixth week of his pursuit, help came to Rumpelstiltskin from the most unexpected places.

Red, steely eyes looked at the seven angry men standing in his study room. One of them, a portly man called Maurice, took a step closer. Rumpelstiltskin's knights drew their swords but he signalled them to be at ease. He remembered this man; he was the ringmaster he tried to execute.

Maurice eyed him with distaste before speaking of a solution to his mad search. He told him how to track fairies and defeat them. Rumpelstiltskin asked him why he offered his help; after all he did try to murder him. The man's simple reply was that he and his company cared for Belle. One of Maurice's companions, a man with a missing right arm, stepped next to him. Rumpelstiltskin's could feel his guards tensed at the man's approach before dangling a worn haversack in front of him. Slowly and gently the one-armed man took a crystal ball out from the bag. Rumpelstiltskin eyed him and object with curiosity.

There was no introduction. The one-armed man shoved the ball into Rumpelstiltskin's hands and told him to think of Belle. It would show him her location.

"Surely it worked for you?" The one-armed man nodded. "Why come to me then?"

The man gave a long suffering sigh before answering curtly, "We lack someone with a certain skill set to breach the fairy's security."

"So you know where the fairy kept Belle captive?" A silent nod answered the king. "You've observed her place?" Another nod. "Have a plan?" A third nod. "Then why are you all here?! Who knows what that flea has done to her due to your inaction?" Rumpelstiltskin's voice rose steadily with each word. "Last I checked we have eleven assassins scattered in a town east of the capital. Any one of them can be of help!" The king rose from his seat, seething with anger, forgetting about the ball in his hand. The crystal ball rolled off the table and nearly hit the ground, but the one-armed man swiftly rescued it from its doom.

"In case you've forgotten, your majesty, you've stripped us of everything valuable. Our work does not yield us enough money to hire those people," the one-armed man answered evenly. "We heard that you've changed… how you've changed. We hope you might be able to help, if indeed Belle has a place in that black heart of yours."

'_She doesn't just have a place in it, she owns it,_' he thinks to himself. "You need one of my knights?"

"Yes."

"Very well." Rumpelstiltskin was about to ordered his knights when the one-armed man interrupted him.

"Don't you want to see where the fairy kept Belle captive?" the king stilled. He eyed the crystal ball in the other man's hand with dread. Several thoughts crossed his mind. Was he prepared to see what the ball will show him? Would it show her bloodied and broken body hanging from a tree? Maybe Mathilda had locked her in a room full of poisonous creatures. Was he brave enough to face the truth? Exhaling a deep breath, he did as instructed and gasped at what he saw. In a prison of thorns, Belle sat on a threadbare cot. Her matted hair covered her face and scratches were visible on her pale arms. All he knew in that moment was the fury welling up in him.

Abel, Maurice finally had the decency to introduce the one-armed man, explained the perilous path they had to take. He warned everyone present of the extreme journey and that any man who slowed the group would be left behind. Rumpelstiltskin scoffed. He cared not a whit for the danger. He only wanted to be there to carry Belle away to safety. He asked what needed to be done and the men detailed out their strategy.

Mathilda stationed a number of guards on different levels of her home. Maurice men said they could be dealt with rather easily. However, three masked men in long overcoat were stationed at Belle's cell, each with a curved and slender blade. Looking through the crystal ball, Rumpelstiltskin's eyes widened. These swords and men were foreign to his lands, only a few were privy to their existence—there was no need to put his people in panic. Common men would spread rumours of an unknown empire infiltrating his lands and the last thing he needed was tension and disorganisation within his realm. This elusive group of men had cost him a number of skilled spies and soldiers. Their movements were swift, precise, and deadly. A single stroke of their blade was enough to cleanly cut his best spies in half. This explained why Maurice and his men sought his help. Going into your enemy's domain without fully understanding the danger would only lead to a failure mission.

Swift and silent was the surest way to a successful operation. Only seven men were needed to infiltrate the fairy's home. When the king objected and insisted on bringing his army, the companions rebuffed his proposal. They said it was an unwise decision—not all of his knights were equipped with the needed skills. "We would be spotted from miles you daft man!" someone shouted, earning a glare from the Rumpelstiltskin. Long hours of argument later, both parties relented—Belle would not gain anything from their childish bickering. Only Rumpelstiltskin and two of his skilled knights were allowed, forcing three of Maurice's company to stay behind with great reluctance.

Rumpelstiltskin's advisors warned him against his foolishness, but he was determined. He appointed his most trusted advisor, Isham, to govern in his absence. When Rumpelstiltskin and his chosen knights were finally alone with the seven men, he took a proper look at Belle's friends. The tallest amongst them—and also the most handsome—caressed the crystal ball with longing and worry. "Do not worry, my boy, we'll get Belle out," Maurice whispered before patting the man's shoulder, "I know that you love her, we all do, but worrying is neither going to help her nor you." The king felt a pang of jealously at this knowledge, but he ignored it. After all, Belle was in danger and it would not do for such trivial feelings to get in the way.


End file.
